FRENCH’S ACTING EDITION , No. 2467 


6015 
77 F6 
16 





THE 
rOURTH ACT 




A Play in One Scene 

FOR THREE PEOPLE 

BY 

BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS 



‘C’/je TZimes says : 

“Good lines and neat situations — SUITED TO PRIVATE 
THEATRICALS, where it should do well ” 


PRICE SIXPENCE NET 
AMATEUR FEE, ONE GUINEA EACH REPRESENTATION 


“Q” 

A Psychic Pstory of the Psupernatural 

IN ONE ACT 

by 

STEPHEN LEACOCK 

and 

BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS 


Originally produced at 

the COLISEUM, London, on 

November 29, 1915, 

with the following cast : — • 

Jack Annerly 

Mr. Charles Hawtrey 

George Gnoof 

. Mr. Miles Malleson 

Blight 

Mr. E. IV. Tarver 

Dora Dnieper 

, Miss Mona Harrison 

Scene - 

A sitting* room 

One Act, 


Price 6d. 


30 minutes 

in represen 

1- 

tation. 



One Scene. 


Fee, 


One Guinea. 


“That rara avis — a really funny sketch !” — Toron Topics. 


THE FOURTH ACT 

A PLAY IN ONE SCENE 


THE FOURTH ACT 


OPINIONS OF THE CRITICS 


Daily Mail. — " There is always a distinctive quality of 
original humour to be found in a play credited to the 
pen of Mr. B. Macdonald Hastings, and the audience was 
treated to amusing dialogue and good acting.” 

Observer. — “ Characteristically good dialogue and telling 
lines.” 

Daily Mirror. — “ Very amusing and very witty.” 

Daily Telegraph. — "The theme is freshly and pleasantly 
handled.” 

Evening Standard. — “ A delightful playlet.” 

Daily Chronicle. — “ A vivacious satire on stage heroics 
and conventions . . . Capital fun . . .” 

The Times. — “ Good lines and neat situations. Suited to 
private theatricals where it should do well.’* 



NOV 29 1916 


THE FOURTH ACT 


A PLAY IN ONE SCENE 


By 

BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS 


Copyright, 1916, by Samuel French, Limited 

Entered at the Library of Congress, 
Washington, U.S.A. 


New York 
SAMUEL FRENCH 
Publisher 

28-30 WEST 38TH STREET 



London 

SAMUEL FRENCH, Ltd 
26 Southampton Street 
' STRAND 



OTHER PUBLISHED PLAYS 
BY BASIL MACDONALD HASTINGS 

The New Sin (3 Acts). 

Love — and What Then ? (4 Acts). 

The Tide (4 Acts). 

Advertisement (4 Acts). 

The Angel in the House (3 Acts, with Eden Phillpotts) 
Price is. net paper ; 2s. net cloth and 
Q (1 Act, with Stephen Leacock). Price 6 d. 


©CI.D 45557^-* 



CHARACTERS 


Sir Philip A Courcy. 

Mr. Robert Valpas — His Secretary. 
Miss Daphne Alloa. 


First performed at the London Coliseum July 17, 1916 
with the following cast: — 


Miss Daphne Alloa 
Sir Philip a Courcy 
Mr. Robert Valpas . 


Miss Lillah McCarthy. 
Mr. Ben Webster. 

Mr. Allan Wade. 


The play produced by Mr. Charles Hawtrey. 


THE FOURTH ACT 


Scene. — Sir Philip’s Study in Carlton House 
Terrace. 

The room is handsomely furnished and carpeted. In 
the R. wall, slightly up stage, is a large window. 
The door is in the hack wall, slightly to L. The 
whole of the l. wall and R. half of the hack wall and 
the lower part of the R. wall are covered by books. 
Down R. is a small set of steps such as is used for 
getting hooks from high shelves. In the centre is a large 
writing-desk with revolving chair. There is another 
chair to L. of desk. Below the desk is a comfortable 
couch. Close to the L. end of couch is a small smoker's 
table. It is a bright summer morning and the sun 
streams in through window R. 

When the curtain rises Sir Philip a Courcy is dis- 
covered looking out of the open window R. He is 
a good-looking, clean-shaven young man of about 
thirty-two. 

Sir Philip (shouting through window). Keep your 
bat straight and keep your right foot still, Alan. 
That’s it. Plant it there and make a resolution not 
to move it. . . . Keep your bat straight. . . . 

(There are boyish cries from outside : “ Bravo ! 

Middle Stump. Hooray ! ”) 

7 


8 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


(Enter Mr. Robert Valpas, Sir Philip’s Secretary . 

He is a gentleman of about the same age as Sir 

Philip.) 

Robert (familiarly). I say, Philip, there’s a girl 
here, and I can’t get rid of her. 

Philip. Oh confound it ! Just when I’m busy 
. . . coaching the boys in cricket. 

Robert. What shall I say ? 

Philip (coming from window). That means you 
want me to see her, eh; Robert ? 

Robert. I should if I were you. She’s got the 
smartest hat on I ever saw. 

Philip (sternly). Private secretaries should have 
eyes for the head and not the hat. What does she 
want ? 

Robert. Won’t say ! Won’t go. Dared me to 
carry her out. I’d like to. 

Philip (frowning). Robert, you’re a perfect idiot 
with women. 

Robert. Well, I like that ... no more than 
you are with cricket. 

Philip. Get rid of her. (He returns to the window.) 

(Robert shrugs his shoulders and goes out.) 
(Philip now shouts further advice to the boys outside.) 

(Mr. Robert Valpas returns.) 

Robert. Shall I send for the police ? 

Philip. Oh, confound it. Robert, you’re worse 
than useless. Is she a lady ? 

Robert. Certainly, I should say. 

Philip. Then she’ll go if I tell her to. Show 
her in. 

(Exit Robert, smiling.) 

Philip (talking through window). Pitch ’em a 
bit shorter, Phil. It’s better to be a trifle short 
than too well up. Here ! Put a shilling down and 
try to hit it. (He throws a shilling out of the window.) 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


9 


Now, don’t fight for it. Split it afterwards. Put 
that off stump straight, Alan. 

(During this Robert shows in Miss Daphne Alloa. 
Daphne is a pretty woman of about thirty. Her 
clothes are tailor-made and practical, but still very 
smart. A rakish little fur hat gives a touch of 
individuality to her appearance. Robert carries 
her attache case.) 

Daphne. Good morning ! ... (To Robert) Put 
my luggage down. 

(Robert puts the case on the desk and gazes admiringly 
into Daphne’s eyes.) 

Philip (turning). Mr. Valpas ! 

(Exit Robert.) 

Daphne. Don’t scold him. He’s been such good 
company. 

Philip. Oh, has he ? Will you be good enough 
to say what you want. I don’t — I can’t see people 
without appointments. Every moment of my time 
is occupied with 

(Boys’ voices — “ Aren’t you coming to play, Daddy ? ”) 

(Daphne peeps round his shoulder at the open window.) 

Ahem ! Take a chair. 

(Daphne sits in chair L. of desk.) 

Daphne. Do you mind if I make a note ? 

Philip. N — o, but I shall be glad if 

Daphne. Have you a pencil ? 

Philip. Certainly. There it is. (He gives her 
one.) 


10 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


Daphne. This chair is uncomfortable. May I 
sit down there on the couch — just by that dear little 
table ? ( She sits on sofa.) 

Philip. If you like. 

(Daphne moves to l. end of couch. She produces 
notebook from attache case and places it on the little 
smoker’s table. Then she makes a note.) 

Certainly ! Make yourself at home. 

(Philip bending over attache case and noting its con- 
tents). I knew it ! I knew it ! You’re an actress. 
That case contains the type-script of a play. I know 
’em a mile off. You’re an actress, aren’t you ? 
Daphne. Indeed no. I’m an author. 

Philip (despairingly). An author! Worse and 
worse. 

Daphne. Yes, Sir Philip a Courcy. An author ! 
Now you know why I am here. 

Philip (gloomily). I can guess. 

Daphne. For many months I have been working 
at a play. I want you to produce it. 

Philip (groaning). Oh Lord ! Oh Lord ! (Turns 

up L.C.) 

Daphne. But you produce so many. Everybody 
knows you are behind the Archbishop’s Theatre and 

they say you have a share 

Philip. Please ! Please ! Please ! . . . In the 
first place what is your name ? 

Daphne. Daphne Alloa. 

Philip. Daphne Alloa ! (l.c.) You’ve never 

written anything before in your life, have you ? 

(Daphne shakes her head.) 

Of course not. Suddenly you read a fatuous para- 
graph in a paper that a play might be worth £100,000 ! 
Daphne. So I did. 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


1 


Philip. Of course you did. You immediately 
get an idea. You tell a friend about it, a literary 
friend, perhaps. 

Daphne. She is. She has had a poem accepted 
by royalty. 

Philip. I knew it. This friend encourages 3/ou, 
heaven forgive her. You write your play and it’s 
generally a farrago of nonsense composed of what you 
remember of “ Charley's Aunt,” “ The Sign of the 
Cross,” “The Belle of New York,” and the Drury 
Lane Pantomime. You hawk it round the mana- 
gers — 

Daphne. I didn’t hawk. I couldn’t hawk. 

Philip. Well, you offer it anyway. No one will 
produce it. So you sob your heart out and try and 
get a job as a dramatic critic — to get your own back. 

Daphne (meekly ') . And are all beginners the same. 

Philip. Well, you’re something of an exception. 
You’re the first author that ever got into this room 
without an introduction. . . . Now, Miss Alloa, I 
can’t produce your play. I can’t. I won’t. I 

can’t. I w Oh ! if only you knew how I’m 

pestered. (Down l.) 

Daphne. But don’t you like it ? You’re a 
multi-millionaire, passionately devoted to the arts. 

Philip. Passionately devoted to fiddlesticks. I 
detest the theatre and all its works. 

Daphne. You detest the theatre ! Then how on 
earth does it happen 

Philip. I support the theatre because I can’t 
help myself. It’s a family curse. 

Daphne. A family curse ! 

Philip. Yes. The first folio of Shakespeare was 
dedicated to one of my ancestors. (Philip l.c. by 
small table.) Ever since then the family has been 
quite mad about the drama. I inherited millions 
certainly, but a big share of it is tantamount to a 
trust fund which must be used for theatrical enter- 
prises. Every decade, for instance, I’m practically 


12 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


committed to presenting Shakespeare in a new way. 
I'm an impresario against my will, I tell you. 

Daphne. It must be very hard, certainly, to have 
to spend so much money on what you don’t like. 

Philip. Now if it were the music-hall profession, 
I’d enjoy it. I adore a good music-hall show, don’t 
you ? No humbugging art about it. It’s real, 
it’s actual, it’s satisfying. 

Daphne. Lockhart’s Elephants and Karno’s 
Mumming Birds, and all that. 

Philip. Precisely. Not forgetting “ Boiled Beef 
and Carrots.” 

Daphne. But surely there are some plays that 
are real and actual and satisfying. I’m sure mine 
is. 

Philip. Dear me, yes. I was forgetting about 
your play. What’s it about ? 

Daphne. Myself. 

Philip. Oh — h ! That’s — that’s — well, that’s 

different. 

Daphne. Every one can write one play or one 
book. 

Philip. Oh, I’ve heard that so often. 

Daphne. It’s truer than you think. Well, my 
play is in four acts. (She takes out script.) 

Philip. But there are only three there. 

Daphne. Exactly. The fourth remains to be 
written. 

Philip. Indeed. 

Daphne. I’m going to write it here. 

Philip. My dear lady, I really must ask you — — 

Daphne. First, with your permission, I want to 
make a sketch map of the room, what is called a 
scene plot, I believe. 

Philip. But I tell you that my time (Boyish 

voices are heard calling from off R., “ Dad ! Dad ! ”) 

Philip (going to window). I’ll come out in a few 
minutes. 


(He closes window.) 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


13 


Daphne (going to window and looking out). Are 
those your boys ? 

Philip. Yes. 

Daphne. You’re a widower, aren’t you ? 

Philip. Yes. 

Daphne. Curious. You’re a widower with two 
boys and I’m a widow with two girls. Look ! (She 
produces a locket.) There are my two girls. 

Philip (diffidently). Very charming. 

Daphne. Their names are Daphne and Ursula. 
The one on the right is Ursula. 

Philip. Quite so. 

Daphne. And the one on the left is Daphne. 
Philip. Quite so. 

Daphne. But we must get on with our work, 
mustn’t we ? 

Philip. Our work ! 

Daphne. Oh yes. I know you’ll help. Let me 
see. Window up R. (she makes notes), door in back 
hall, slightly L. Large writing-desk c. with revolving 
chair. Below desk a comfortable couch. Room for — • 
sit beside me, will you ? Just room for two. 

(She rises and he after her.) 

Smoker’s table to l. of sofa. (She returns to steps and 
sits on them.) It is a bright summer morning. When 
the curtain rises Sir Philip a Courcy is discovered. 

He is a good-looking 

Philip. Thank you ! 

Daphne. Clean-shaven 

(Philip feels his chin.) 

-bright-eyed young man of thirty — er — thirty-three. 
Philip. Thirty-two. 

Daphne. Thank you, thirty-two. Just a little 
opening talk with the secretary and then I come on. 
Where were you standing ? 


14 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


Philip. Oh, bother it. Does that matter ? 

Daphne. A little. Stand at your desk, will you ? 

(She guides him to a position above the writing-table.) 

Then I come on impetuously. Like this. Suddenly 
I stop, and I’m frozen to the spot. 

Philip. What ! On a morning like this ? Be- 
sides, you weren’t. 

Daphne. No. But I ought to be. It’s the way 
things happen in plays. I should be frozen to the 
spot — and then I should melt into your arms. 

Philip. Madam ! 

Daphne. Yes. But then I ought to have known 
you before. Watch how I would do it. I would 
come in — so. I would freeze to the spot — so. And 
then I would exclaim with a genuine air of astonish- 
ment — “ So it is you ! ” 

Philip. Of course it’s me — I mean I. 

Daphne. Ah, but you ought to be something 
out of my past. You should be the man who robbed 
me of my fortune or something like that. You 
should have promised to marry me and deserted me 
for an heiress. I suppose you never did jilt me, did 
you ? 

Philip. Certainly not. 

(Daphne makes a note.) 

Daphne. No. I’m afraid I’ve never seen you 
before in my life. 

Philip. You have not. 

(Daphne makes a note.) 

And I’m busy. 

Daphne (wistfully). Ah, don’t say that again. 
I’m not really joking— or rather I’m joking to make 
the interview pleasant for you. If I were tragic you 
wouldn’t like me. And yet it is true that I and my 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


15 


little girls are very nearly at the end of our bread 
money. . . . Ah, don’t curl your nice mouth. I like 
you severe — better than sympathetic. And you 
know you agreed to help me with the play. 

Philip. If you are telling me the truth — about 
your financial position — don’t bother any more about 
the play. Let me give you an introduction to 

Daphne [still taking notes). You ought to move 
about more. On the stage the characters have to 
keep making crosses. They don’t sit still all through 
an interview. Do you mind walking away some- 
where and coming back. 

Philip [stamping petulantly up the window). This 
is really very ridiculous. 

Daphne. Thank you so much. “ Petulantly 
stamping up R.” ' [She makes a note.) 

Philip. What are you writing down there ? 

Daphne. Everything you say or do. 

Philip. Are you a newspaper woman — or a 
private detective — or a 

Daphne [busily writing). Splendid ! Splendid ! 
Phat was almost dramatic. 

Philip. Why are you writing this down ? 

Daphne. Because this is the fourth act. Every- 
thing we say makes up the dialogue. 

Philip. Miss Alloa, I ask you again to go. 

[He picks up her hat and hurts finger on pin) “ Damn !” 

Daphne. Quite right. You must, you must 
ask me again and again, or the fourth act won’t be 
long enough. Ah, don’t get really angry. Don’t 
you see that like the nice, kind man you are, you are 
giving me everything I want. 

Philip. Thank goodness for that. 

Daphne. My play is about a girl who wrote a 
play — about me. The first three acts tell the story 
of how I came to write that play and what happened 
when I took it to the managers. Every word of it is 
true. 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


16 


Philip. Then what’s the trouble ? 

Daphne .Because the managers won’t produce it. 
How can they — without a happy ending. 

Philip. Can’t you make a happy ending ? 

Daphne. No. But you can. 

Philip. I see. If I say that I will finance the 
play, you’ll write that down and bring down the 
curtain on it. 

Daphne. How quick you are ! 

Philip. And the corollary is that I throw away 
some thousands of pounds. 

Daphne. And the cor-r- (writing). Please spell 
corollary. 

Philip (, forgetting himself). C-o-r — — Oh, hang 
it, spell it yourself. 

Daphne. That’s right. Be brusque and rough. 
Bully me. And then melt. Come up to me and 
smack the open palm of your left hand with your 
clenched right and say 

(There is a crash from off R.) 

Whatever was that ? 

Philip. One of my boys fallen into a cucumber- 
frame . . . (He goes up r.) 

(He goes to window and Daphne, after putting down 
her notebook on top of steps, follows him.) 

Daphne (looking out at the boys). Aren’t — they — 
just — lovely ? 

Philip (pleased). Like their father, don’t you 
think ! 

Daphne. How old are they ? 

Philip. Well, Philip’s eight, yes, eight and two 
months. Alan’s a few days short of seven. 

Daphne. Eight and seven ! Why, I should have 
said at least twelve and ten. 

Philip (pleased). Would you ? 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


17 


Daphne. Rath-er ! How lucky you are to have 
boys. My little girls are dears — but it’s not quite the 
same thing, is it ? 

Philip. Well, there’s a difference. 

Daphne (softly). When — when did their mother 
die, Sir Philip ? 

Philip. When Alan was born. 

Daphne. Ah . . . (she stands watching at the 
window). 

(Philip comes down to desk.) 

Stand back to them dear. (She pulls open window.) 
You’ll get hit on the knuckles every time if you play 
forward to that sort of ball. Stand back and lift 
your bat high. Ah ! That’s better. 

Boys. Right O ! Ha ! ha ! 

( There is a hurst of boyish laughter. Philip gazes at 
her in amazement.) 

Philip. What you do know about cricket ? 
Daphne. As much as most men. (She shits 
window.) I’d love to go down and play with them. 
May I ? 

Philip. You want to go down there ! But what 
about the fourth act ? 

Daphne. Yes, but I was beginning to despair of 
your helping me. 

Philip. Look here, I’ll — I’ll do what I can. 
Daphne (genuinely surprised and grateful). You 
— will ! How splendid of you. 

Philip. Not at all. You’re as irresistible as my 
secretary said you were. He’s a bit of an ass, but he 
was right this time. Sit down. 

Daphne. Shall I ? Where ? 

Philip. Here : on this sofa (she sits and he 
sits beside her), where there is just room for two. 
Tell me about the play. Is there any love interest 
in it ? 


1.8 


THE FOURTH ACT. 


Daphne. Ye-es. But not for the principal 
character. ^ 

Philip. And the principal character is you ? 

Daphne. M’m. 

Philip. Designing widow, aren’t you ? 

Daphne. Well, yes. But in the nicest possible 
sense. 

Philip. Oh yes, of course. Do you think that 
the play has a dog’s chance without some love interest 
for the heroine ? 

Daphne. It would be better, I admit. But you 
see every line of the play is true. And I can’t invent 
a lover for myself. 

Philip. Supposing I were to invent one for you. 
. . . Yes, I admit I’m getting interested. You seem 
a clinking good sort. Can you bowl ? 

Daphne. Yes. Quite a decent leg break. 

Philip (almost fervently) . A decent leg break ? 
Yes, I’m sure of it. Well, it would be quite easy to 
make love to you for the purposes of your play. 

Daphne. I’d hate you to put yourself out. 

Philip. Not at all. I’m really disengaged till 
twelve. You’ll want the notebook. 

Daphne. Yes. (She rises.) But still — if you 
don’t feel like it — it won’t be much use to me. 

Philip. I can be desperately in earnest for the 
time being. You aren’t the only pretty widow in the 
world. 

Daphne (picking notebook from desk). No. I 
dare say you’re in practice. Begin. 

Philip. Sit here. (He indicates couch.) 

Daphne (meekly). I will. 

Philip (rising and clearing his throat). Now 

we’ll begin. Do you — do you Don’t look at 

me ! 

Daphne. No ? 

Philip. You should realize what is coming and 
look away. Make patterns on the carpet with your 
toe. 


THE FOURTH ACT 


19 


Daphne ( slightly raising her skirt and scraping the 
floor with the tip of a pretty shoe) . Like that ? 

Philip. Yes. {He comes closer.) Just like that. 
You’re writing something on the carpet. What is it ? 

Daphne. “ Yours truly, Daphne Alloa.” 

Philip. You’re the most adorable woman I’ve 
seen in my life. 

Daphne {writing in her book). “ You’re the most 
adorable woman I’ve seen in my life.” Do you 
really think so, Philip ? 

Philip. Yes, dear. 

Daphne {making note). “Yes, dear.” 

Philip. That’s good . . . “dear!” don’t you 
think ? I feel so at home with your eyes. Some 
widows’ eyes make you feel as if you’re out for the 
night. 

{Both repeat the last sentence.) 

Daphne {writing). It’s a risky line. Do you think 
I ought to put it in ? 

Philip. Oh yes. The censor ’ll cut it out. And 
then you wear your clothes so cosily. You make a 
sort of chrysalis of them. 

Daphne {making a note) . Y ou dear ! N o necessity 
to write your dialogue. I shall remember every word 
of it. 

Philip. You’re so cousinly and all that. 

Daphne. Whatever “ that ” may be. {Making a 
note.) 

Philip You’re the sort of girl who comes on 
Sunday afternoon and stays for ever. 

Daphne. M’m. A sort of spare-room girl ! 

Philip. A sort of mistletoe girl, a sort of taxi-cab 
girl, a sort of sit-out-the-next-foxtrot girl. 

Daphne. Next-foxtrot girl ! Philip, you’ve got 
me set. Now you ought to propose. 

Philip. Already ! 

Daphne. Unless you think it would come as a 
shock to me. 


20 


THE FOURTH ACT 


Philip. Very well. 

Daphne. One minute. 

Philip. What is it ? 

Daphne. I must turn away and make patterns 
with my toe. (She lifts her skirt and writes on the 
carpet again.) 

Philip. What do you write this time ? 

Daphne. “ Yours truly, Daphne a Courcy.” 

Philip. . . . Miss Alloa — Daphne 

(Daphne writes.) 

I’m sick of not being engaged, aren’t you ? 

Daphne. Oh dear, this is realism ! 

Philip. What would you have me say ? 

Daphne. Well, I thought you’d begin like this. 

Intoxicated by your maddening beauty and 
thrilled by the evidences of your sublime intellect 

Philip. I hate intellect. 

Daphne. “ — I offer you my heart, my name and 
my fortune. As for your play, I will arrange for its 
sumultaneous production in five capitals, and — 
and will you stop to lunch ? ” 

Philip. That’s your idea of a happy ending ! 

Daphne. Yes. And, after all, I’m the author. 

Philip. Well, put it that way if you like. What is 
your answer ? 

Daphne. My answer is yes. Now you kiss me. 

(He hesitates a little.) 

Daphne. Only a stage kiss. 

Philip. What sort’s that ? 

Daphne. You all but do it, but you don’t. 

(Philip puts knee on sofa and leans over her.) 

Philip. How’s this ? (He bends over her and kisses 
her.) 

Daphne. Thank you. ( She writes) “ He kisses 


THE FOURTH ACT 


21 


her.” And, now again. (He kisses her.) Thank 
you. (She writes.) “ He kisses her again.” 

Daphne. It doesn’t seem right somehow. 

Philip. Doesn’t it. Seemed all right to me. 

Daphne. No. Stage directions always say, “ He 
snatches her to him.” Can you snatch ? 

Philip. No, but I can try. 

Daphne. Well, I’ll show you how it’s done and 
then you can snatch me. 

(She throws her arms around him and kisses him.) 
Like that. 

Philip. I don’t think much of that — you bumped 
my nose. I can snatch better than that. How’s 
this ? . . . 

(He makes a grab at her and presses her to him.) 

Daphne. You are very quick to learn ! 

Philip. Oh. It’s just a knack, just a knack 
airily). 

Daphne. I hope that’s all it is. 

Philip (swinging himself about). I like this act. 

Daphne. I knew you would. 

Philip. Let’s go on with it. 

Daphne. But a kiss is an ending. 

Philip. Nonsense. It’s a beginning. 

Daphne. I think you might say something more. 

Philip. I’ll whisper it. (He whispers in her ear.) 

Daphne (laughing). I must write that down. 

Philip. Wha-a-t ? 

Daphne. It can come after the curtain’s fallen 
if you like. 

Philip. But when the curtain falls that is the 
end of the play. 

Daphne. Yes — indeed. And, now that the act 
is finished (she draws a line in her notebook), we 
must not pretend any more. 

Philip. Oh, Lord, yes. I was pretending, wasn’t 


22 


THE FOURTH ACT 


I ? Well, I’m quite willing to be serious after the 
curtain has fallen. 

Daphne. To be serious. 

Philip. I mean — to be sincere. 

(He places his hand on Daphne's.) 

Daphne. Philip ! ( She catches her breath as his 

meaning dawns upon her.) Let’s pretend the curtain’s 
down now. 

Philip. Better than that. We’ll have it down. 

(He comes to prompt corner .) 

Do you mind letting down the curtain, please ? 
Voice from Prompt Corner. Certainly, sir. 

(Philip takes Daphne’s left hand in his right and they 
wait while the curtain falls. When the curtain 
rises they are seen in close embrace. When they 
realize the curtain is up they break the embrace and 
pretend to be concerned with other things.) 


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